All men are bastards..

A simple suggestion last Sunday that we go for a family outing to Paignton Zoo sent Hubby into a wild rage which culminated in me packing a bag and attempting to leave. I didn’t get very far for a number of reasons, the main one being the big blue eyes of my four children looking forlornly on and the fact that, being a kept woman, I don’t have any independent means and thus could not by any stretch furnish myself with food, clothes and shelter.
If I’d realised that a day out looking at some wild animals would have elicited such a response I’d have kept my mouth shut and got on with filling the washing machine, but as I’d been up since 7am, done a mountain of ironing and presented the family with a platter full of French toast, bacon and maple syrup and, given that for the first time in a long time the sky was azure blue, I felt justified in making such a suggestion.
Hubby however, perhaps worn out from his new job of getting up every morning at 5a.m and returning late in the evening was not amenable to the idea of a day out. Were he to have just said, “Alice love, it’s a nice idea, but I’m whacked, let’s do something a little more low key”, I could have understood. Instead he fell into a full on tirade of how I was constantly irresponsible regarding our finances, as he oh, so clearly pointed out, “All is do is earn the money and all you do is spend it”. I pointed out that of course I did seeing as it is only I that does the shopping and sees to the children’s more material needs. When I say pointed out we were of course by this point shouting rather loudly at one another, insult after insult, long repressed resentment finding a forum to be exorcised. It was ugly and finally culminated in Hubby roaring, “In all these years Alice you have done nothing to assist me”. I reeled backwards as though shot. Did he just say what I thought he’d just said?
The last twenty years flashed before me and I remembered the months and months of deployments were I brought up various young children on my own. I remembered the phone calls from Antigua were Hubby was just going to a champagne lunch as I swallowed my Prozac, sinking in a pit of post natal depression. I remembered all the Naval dinners and balls I’d attended where I’d behaved impeccably and listened politely to interminable speeches and anecdotes by various naval top bods. I’d bitten my tongue on numerous occasions when political opinion was conflicting with my own and at all times did the best I could to make a good impression for Hubby’s sake. Many is the time, overcome with ennui that I could have sunk another glass of port and slid under the table. I remembered the successful career he has forged because I was always there like some faithful Labrador, all tongues an tails a-wagging. I remembered being whipped off to America, where at the time I had quite a successful career – well, slightly flourishing, only to return with another baby, no mother and most certainly no career. I was mad. M.A.D. Virgil.
‘Nothing to assist him?’ I thought. Well we’ll just see about that. I will remove my assistance and see how he copes unassisted. My first list informing Hubby of which child did what on which day and with whom, was crumpled into a little ball, so I wrote another one and stuck it on the fridge. Then with heaving chest and wracking sobs I ran upstairs to pack a bag. Hubby, perhaps having seen the errors of his ways or more likely worried that he wouldn’t be able to go to work the following day without childcare, wrestled the bag from me. I pulled the handles in one direction, he the other.
Suddenly a “Yoo-hoo” from downstairs brought us to some extent, our senses as Mags called up the stairs, “You two up to some Sunday morning recreation?!” How more removed from the truth could she have been.
I ran down. “I’m leaving him Mags. I can’t stand it any longer”. Mags looked stricken, but as ever in charge, handed me a tissue and delving into her designer handbag pulled out a pair of Gucci sunglasses, “Put these on and let’s go for a coffee”.
There are few places to drink coffee on the Rame Peninsula on a Sunday morning but luckily the lovely Moran’s in Kingsand was open and unbeknownst to them was a refuge that day. Over coffee and a complimentary bit of fudge which was very welcome given that my mother always advised something sweet for shock, I spilt my beans, “There’s nothing I can do though Mags. I can’t really leave. I am a chattel, a kept woman, a captive audience. If he chooses to stop putting money into our joint account, I’ll starve to death”. I’ve never been one for understatement. Mags did a lot of soothing ‘there, there’s’ before we left and she drove me home to face the music.
I arrived to find Hubby making a picnic. “I’ll leave you to it”, said Mags kissing me before she closed the front door.
I was feeling terribly feeble and worn out. My packed bag was nowhere to be seen. “Thought we’d go up onto Dartmoor”, suggested Hubby, “Have a walk around Burrator reservoir”. It was hardly the ape house but it was I could see an attempt at reconciliation. It was a quiet walk, the 12 year old could sense hostility but the younger ones were happy with the simple pleasures of muddy wellies, throwing stones and a strawberry 99. Several days later and we’ve held crisis talks and summit meetings and a matrimonial disaster has once again been avoided although not without a glass of wine being flung in the face of superciliousness.